The Darkness Inside
by Neffie
Summary: A crossover of sorts. Read Author's note. After a brutal turf war, Spot discovers something inside himself.


Author's note: Here is my first attempt at a crossover of sorts. This story is a Newsies story, but I have dipped the boys into the Charmed universe. You do not need to watch Charmed to understand this story. If I do my job right, everything that needs to be explained will be. The blame for this story lies entirely on Web Writer Witch. It's alllllll his fault, he got me watching Charmed.

Title: The Darkness Inside

Author: Neffie

Prologue

The hot July sun made the cobblestone streets hot enough to scald the barefeet of small children racing home for whatever meager shelter they could find from the oppressing heat.

On the docks of the East River, a lone figure stood. His crystal blue eyes were streaked with red as he gazed across the water. A black cane was in his hands, his knuckles white in their grip. Atop this cane was a crowning knob, once a freshly shined gold, now smeared in blood. His hollowed cheeks, marred with bruises and cuts, his light brown hair whipped about his face in the river breeze, save for a few strands that stuck to his forehead with sweat. Silent tears ran down his face, leaving trails through the dirt and dried blood on his skin. There wasn't a single part of his body that wasn't aching, bruised, or bleeding, but he took hardly any notice. His heart was filled with nothing but pain, and his soul was black with sorrow. Images and memories jumbled together as he tried to find some sense of purpose behind the tragedy that had just occurred.

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The lodging houses throughout New York had all heard about the intentions of the Queens newsies for weeks. Spade, their leader, was hungry for more territory and would stop at nothing to get it. Harlem had already fallen under his rule. His next target would be Brooklyn, of that everyone was sure. If Brooklyn fell, none of the other houses would stand a chance. Not even Manhattan, who had influence throughout the city ever since the strike that previous summer. No one knew when Spade was going to make his move across the bridge. They were all watching and waiting. Anticipation charged the air, like electricity the moment before the lightening strikes.

It was barely dawn when the storm began. Spade's newsies had crept across the bridge just before daybreak. Brick, Flame, and Shooter, the three lookouts that night, had fought valiantly, but had stood no chance against a dozen Queens newsies. Brick alone had escaped the brawl and ran as fast as he could towards the lodging house. Only half conscious as he reached the front step.

"Spot! Spot!" The leader of Brooklyn jumped up from his seat as two of his newsies burst through the door, supporting a bloody and beaten Brick.

"Dey're 'ere! Dey're 'ere! Dey're crossin' da bridge! Dey're crossin' da bridge!" Brick frantically repeated over and over. He couldn't stand on his own. Using the last of his strength he warned Spot of the coming attack before he gave into the pain and lost consciousness.

"Where are Flame and Shootah?" Spot asked the two boys who were now carrying Brick. The only response he received was the sad and hesitant looks from the two. It was known that Spade was merciless. There was no doubt that the other two lookouts wouldn't have survived the ambush, and if they had, it would be better if they had died.

Spot gave a quick nod and the two carried Brick up to the bunkroom. Clenching his jaw, he turned to Coal, his second-in-command, who was standing behind him. "Rally up da boys," his voice was a dangerous growl, "Spade will **not** take Brooklyn."

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For three days, Queens and Brooklyn fought on the banks of the East River. Even the youngest newsies fought for their home. Pup, barely six, had earned his name due to his tendency to follow Spot wherever he went, like a stray. The young boy had been in the wrong place at the wrong time as a stack of heavy crates was tipped over as two older boys battled. The weight had crushed Pup and damaged him inside. Spot didn't even see the broken boy until it was too late. He had stood in shock for a moment before a cry of uncensored rage ripped from his throat. It took two of his strongest boys to keep him from diving into the midst of the battle to try and unbury the boy. The sight of the small, frail child had been the last spark for the powder keg that was Spot Conlon.

"SPADE!" Spot charged toward the leader of Queens like a raging bull. The two boys stood on the docks, their gazes locked. Blue fire against smoldering black.

"Give it up Conlon." Spade taunted. "Brooklyn Bridge will fall."

"Ya can't have Brooklyn, ya bastard," Spot took a step forward. "I **am** Brooklyn!"

With that, they launched themselves full force into the brawl. It was close to an hour before their energy began to wane. By that point, all of the newsies, Brooklyn and Queens, had gathered to watch their respective leaders fight. This was where it would be decided. Spot spit the blood out of his mouth. "I'll tell ya one last time Spade. Take your boys and get the hell outta my territory." Spade only stood with a sadistic grin.

Then, with what could only be described as the roar of an animal defending it's home, Spot raised his cane and rushed the leader of Queens. All fell silent at the sound of a sickening crunch as Spot's cane connected with Spade's skull, followed by the thump of his now lifeless body hitting the wood planks.

No one dared to speak a word as Spot turned to address what remained of the army of Queens. "Leave. Now. While you can still walk." He pointed the now bloodied cane at the boys. "Or I swear, you will have your rotten corpses thrown in dis damn river. Take your leader and leave. And never, NEVER, step one foot across my bridge again." He turned to face the now setting sun across the water.

And in a flurry of motion, the Queens newsies were on their way home. The Brooklyn newsies slowly and painfully made their way back to the lodging house to nurse their wounds and mourn their dead.

Finally, only Spot and Coal remained. Never moving his eyes from the ball of fire sinking below the horizon, Spot spoke, nearly choking on the words.

"How many?"

"Eight dead."

"Pup?"

"He was already gone by the time we got in out from under the crates."

"Leave me be."

Coal did not question once his leader's command and turned and left. He stopped only once, and looked behind him to see a tear fall on the bruised and bloodied knuckles wrapped around the black cane. 

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Spot had never returned home that night. Instead he had kept an all-night vigil over the waters. Searching for answers to the brutality that had taken eight of his boys. Eight boys that had each had a name. Eight boys that each had whole lives ahead of them. Lives that Spot had sworn to protect as leader of Brooklyn. He had failed them all.

Little Pup would never see another sunrise, have his first kiss, or win his first game of cards. He would never again ride on Spot's back as the two worked their way through the streets, selling papes.

And Spot knew that he was to blame. That if somehow he had tried harder, none of this would have happened.

The morning sun would find Spot in the same place. A lone sentinel still standing at the post he had failed to protect.

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From the shadows, a presence watched. The boy's anger and sadness radiated like an aura to the creature's eyes. He would be punished for his sins.


End file.
